Tommy, Darling, Are You Gay?
by Quix
Summary: Poor Voldemort receives a Howler from his grandchildren-obsessed Mummy. Can he placate his mother, keep his Guy Fawkes Day plans and boost his karma all in one day? Not likely. Features snakes, laundry, and Truly Evil Baby Photos. New chapter uploaded!
1. A Howler From Home

Disclaimer:  All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.  Except for Voldemort's mother.  I mean, we assume that he _had_ a mother, but I bet she wasn't anything like this…

P.S.  No offence whatsoever is intended towards homosexuals with this fic.  It's a parody and not meant to be taken seriously.

**TOMMY, DARLING, ARE YOU GAY?**

It was November fifth, Guy Fawkes Day, and Voldemort  (A.K.A: Tom Marvalo Riddle.  A.K.A: You-Know-Who.  A.K.A: He Who Must Not Be Named.  A.K.A: the Dark Lord.  A.K.A: Margaret Thatcher...)  was busy organizing his "special" schedule for this special occasion. There were only eleven things on his To Do list, but he just could not decide which task he should do first. They all looked like so much fun! 

Voldemort sighed, his breath coming out in a snake-like hiss. His eyes, redder than the worst case of conjunctivitis ever recorded, scanned down his inventory again. The list read: 

**Things To Do Today: **

1. Aspire to world domination. 

2.  Torture Muggles 

3.  Murder Muggles 

4.  Blow up London Bridge, thus murdering or maiming Muggles.

5.  Blow up the Ministry of Magic 

6.  Blow up Hogwart's School of Wizardry and Witchcraft 

7.  Kill Dumbledore. 

8.  Create an immortality spell. 

9.  Become immortal. 

10.  Kill, torture, or in some way maim Harry Potter. 

11. Impregnate a thousand beautiful American witches with gorgeous, likeable, powerful and prophesised daughters. Call them all Mary Sue. 

He paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. Number 11 looked like fun... But that wasn't very special. With the number of his various Mary Sue daughters already running around, conceiving another thousand was a bit of a drag. 

He idly chewed on the end of his quill. Numbers 4-6 really expressed the true meaning of Guy Fawkes Day. Blowing things up. But on the other hand, he could hardly achieve world domination without first killing Dumbledore and Potter. 

Voldemort rubbed his forehead.  He just couldn't choose.  Damn the bloody indecisiveness of Libra! It wasn't HIS fault that he'd been born in October.   And he could feel a headache coming on.   He'd been having a lot of headaches lately, what with all those Death Eater meetings, rehearsing evil speeches about world domination, and keeping the bloody Malfoys from taking over…   It was just so _stressful_ being the Dark Lord. 

His psychiatrist had told him he needed a holiday, that he needed to get away from it all, maybe limit himself to six Muggle killings a day.

"Six?!" Voldemort had protested. "Bollocks to THAT!" 

The psychiatrist's hasty, "Well, we could aim for ten, and gradually cut down-" was completely wiped out by Voldemort's screech of "Avada Kedavra!" and a flash of green light, as he committed his first civic action: killing a psychiatrist. 

"Nagini? Preciousss? Preciousss, I have a treat for you..." Voldemort had hissed into the silence that followed. 

*

Now, as he was busy sorting out which amusement to do first, Nagini was hissing and writhing in the corner, in the snake equivalent of human indigestion. Voldemort, after a moment or two, looked up and hissed in Parseltongue: "Nagini, my precious, be silent. By the Dark Arts, I'm trying to work!" 

"Forgiveness, Master," the snake hissed back. "Those Muggles...ugh... are sticking... ssss...in my throat." 

"Come, come, Nagini. There weren't that many," Voldemort replied soothingly in Parseltongue. "Remember the fun we had at my old orphanage? You ate many more Muggles there." 

"Those Muggles were little children, Master! Today, you made me eat fourteen _adult_ Muggles.  And some of them were quite lardy, I might add.  I feel so bloated, as if my skin were stretched about me," she whined. 

In a rebellious undertone, Nagini added; "I should report you to the RSPCA for the usage of a snake as a garbage disposer.  You vile git." 

Voldemort shrugged self-consciously, ignoring her. Today, his horoscope had suggested that Libras should do something good for their Cosmic Karma. The Dark Lord had considered this, then decided to play to his strengths, and boost his karma through the systemized murders of the thirty most useless Muggles he could find. 

Almost all of the thirty Muggles had been Americans.  When Voldemort performed the killing curse- flawlessly, of course- upon six TV evangelists, an entire wave of goodness had swept through him.  After feeding Jerry Springer and Rickie Lake to Nagini, he had felt so good that he almost apparated to the Ministry of Magic to tell them he'd rejoined the Light, and planned to adopt Harry Potter as his son. 

A little worried after his brush with the Light Side, Voldemort had decided to limit himself to psychiatrists, lawyers, politicians and telephone salesmen. Although he did save the best for last, throwing in Nancy Stouffer as number 30. Voldemort showed his teeth. It was a cross between an evil grin and an angelic smile. The word "kill" made it evil, but with "Nancy Stouffer" as the context, Voldemort's until now unseen angelic side was showing through. 

Nagini hissed. 

"Precious, be silent!" Voldemort rebuked her. 

Nagini hissed again, ignoring his words. "An owl is coming, Master, you dolt. And don't tell me to 'be silent!" ' 

Indeed, a large, charcoal black owl had just swooped in through the open window. Voldemort watched it land on his desk with boredom. At least seven Death Eaters messaged him each day. But then, Voldemort realised that the envelope was smoking. He stared at it. It was beginning to burn at the edges, fire licking the red corners. With a shudder, the most feared Dark wizard in the magical world quickly opened the envelope. A hugely amplified voice filled the room. The Dark Lord shook with rage at and fear of the only person in the entire world who would dare send him- him!- a Howler.

"Oh no, Mum, don't do this to me!" he pleaded to the empty air, in the split second before the Howler's message began. 

"TOM MARVALO RIDDLE!" 

Voldemort jumped involuntarily. His Mum using his full name... that spoke of tears before bedtime. 

"TOM MARVALO RIDDLE! DEAREST, I DIDN'T WANT TO RESORT TO THIS, BUT YOU HAVEN'T BEEN READING ANY OF YOUR MUMMY'S MAIL! DARLING, OF COURSE I LOVE MY LITTLE TOMMY-KINS, BUT I WANT YOU TO MAKE A COMMITMENT IN YOUR LIFE! NOW, I STOOD BY YOU WHEN YOU FIRST DECIDED TO JOIN THE DARK, AND I WENT TO ALL OF THOSE "PARENTS OF YOUNG DEATH EATERS" MEETINGS WITH THOSE TRULY UNPLEASANT PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS ATTEMPTED TO LORD IT OVER ME, BECAUSE MY LITTLE TOMMY-WOMMY-" 

Voldemort closed his eyes in abject misery. Tommy-Wommy. Even he could not think up a better torture then that of an adult man being forced to endure a mother who refused to let go of her image of her little boy with pretty blue eyes and shoulder-length black curls... 

"-WAS A HALF MUGGLE. BUT MY LITTLE DEVIL SHOWED THEM, DIDN'T YOU, DARLING? I RECALL THOSE SNOTTY MALFOYS, THE 'PROUD PUREBLOODS,' WERE FORCED TO KNEEL TO US! DO YOU REMEMBER, SWEETIE-PIE? BUT I DIGRESS. TREASURE, I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. YOU ARE OVER SEVENTY YEARS OLD, AND YOU HAVEN'T FOUND A NICE GIRL TO SETTLE DOWN WITH YET! CHERUB, I DON'T WANT TO PRESSURE YOU, BUT I AM GETTING OLD, AND I WANT TO HOLD MY GRANDCHILDREN IN MY ARMS BEFORE I DIE." 

Voldemort would have laughed at this, if he wasn't so close to screaming at "Cherub." 

With the amount of beautiful American exchange students to Hogwarts that turned out to be his long-lost daughters, (he would have liked just _one_ son) there were more granddaughters to fill his grandmother's arms then there were incestuous marriages in the Egyptian royal families.

"SWEETIE-POO, AS I SAID, I'VE BEEN CONCERNED, AND I WENT TO ONE OF THOSE MUGGLE PSYCHIATRISTS TO SEE IF THEY COULD HELP ME WITH MY LITTLE DARLING. NOW PRECIOUS, I TOLD HIM A BIT ABOUT YOU, HOW YOU HAVE THOSE AWFUL LITTLE TANTRUMS OF YOURS, AND LASH OUT AT PEOPLE OCCASIONALLY. I ALSO MENTIONED THAT YOU DON'T RELATE VERY WELL TO GIRLS- AND I DID TELL YOU, DARLING, RED EYE CONTACTS ARE NOT VERY ATTRACTIVE- AND HE SEEMS TO KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS." 

Voldemort waited in resigned silence. _Him_ having _tantrums_? More to the point; _Sweetie-Poo_? 

"TOM, IS THERE SOMETHING YOU'VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF? THE PSYCHIATRIST THINKS THAT IT IS BEST IF YOU ADMIT IT TO YOURSELF FIRST, AND HE WANTS YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU SHOULDN'T FEEL EMBARASSED ABOUT IT, NOT AT ALL.  I WANT TO ASK YOU A SERIOUS QUESTION." 

What was it this time? Voldemort wondered to himself. Did Mummy-dearest think that he was a 70-year old juvenile delinquent or something? 

"TOMMY, DARLING, ARE YOU GAY?" 

The Howler burned up in Voldemort's hand. Silence reigned, broken only by Nagini's hissing equivalent of a snigger. 

Voldemort was too dejected to notice. If just one of his Death Eaters had heard that... Well, it'd be the end of the Dark Lord Voldemort, that was for sure. In fact, he'd probably get the nickname of the Gay Lord Voldemort, or the Dark Poof Voldemort, and the bloody Malfoys would take over the world instead of him. The Darkest Wizard of All Time, the Most Powerful Practitioner of the Dark Arts in The Universe, and The Most Evil Bastard In History put his head down on his desk and sobbed. 

"Sensitive little pansy," Nagini hissed. 

* * * * * * 

After a while, Voldemort lifted his head. His tears had soaked through his Things To Do parchment, and everything save a task he had added just 

before the Howler, a 12th task, had been smudged. Voldemort read number 12. "Oh no," he said. "Anything but that." 

Task number 12 was: Visit Mum. 

Voldemort banged his head on his desk. Repeatedly. 

As he slowly gathered the strength of will to force himself to apparate over, he found himself wishing that his mother's subterfuge; that she had died giving birth to him, was true. Muggles were so easy to fool, and even Grandfather Dumbledore had believed his mother dead.  Voldemort shuddered at the thought of Dumbledore. 

His maternal grandfather had more than a few screws loose, but they had more or less come to an agreement: Voldemort did not call Dumbledore's bluff, and apparate with his Death Eaters to raid Hogwarts (never believe a book written by an eccentric wizard) and Grandfather Albus did not release his copy of the Cute, Adorable, Little Baby photograph of Tom Riddle into the public. 

Dumbledore was the one person the Dark Lord was afraid of. The moving photograph in question showed a two-year-old Tom Riddle skipping through a meadow of flowers in a pink frilly cap and equally frilly baby-suit. 

Still, Voldemort mused, his mother's "death" was useful, considering the type of mother that she was. He shuddered to imagine how his Death-Eaters would react if they were to hear her call him "Tommy-kins." He took a few deep breaths, then Disapperated to his mother's house. 

"Tom, darling!" his mother trilled. "So you got my Howler, then?" 

"Yes, Mum," Voldemort replied. "And I am NOT gay!" he added indignantly. 

"Tommy, don't throw a tantrum at me. I will not have you being disrespectful." 

Voldemort hung his head. "Yes, Mum," he said. "Sorry, Mum." 

Mrs Riddle nodded sharply. "Good. Well, precious, now that you're here, you can help me peg put the washing." 

"Yes, Mum." 

"Then, Tommy, you can clean the kitchen and cook up a little dinner." 

"Yes, Mum." 

"And after that, dearest, you can clean up your room! You left it in a pig-sty when you last visited!" 

Voldemort hung his head even further. "Yes, Mum." 

"Oh, and treasure?" 

"Yes, Mum?" 

"Take off the make-up, sweetie. Don't hide your pretty face." 

"Yes, Mum." Voldemort said, and traipsed up the stairs to the bathroom. He sat down on a stool, and slowly and carefully wiped off all of his white face paint, inwardly seething. It took hours each morning to do his face powder so perfectly! Next he removed his glowing red eye contacts. His turquoise blue eyes were revealed underneath. Lastly, he tapped his scalp with a Hair-Growing Charm. Thick black curls threaded out of his head. Voldemort allowed them to lengthen until they reached shoulder length. His Mum liked to see him with long, curling hair. 

He paused for an instant, staring at his reflection. He was over seventy... and he looked like a sixteen year old. Voldemort smiled. It seemed that the secret to eternal youth was immortality, which he had long ago achieved. 

The secret to immortality was to stay alive. Preferably through the use of the Dark Arts, which was why he was so good at it. 

Voldemort hurried back down the stairs. His mother met him halfway up. She nodded when she saw the absence of face paint. "Much better, my handsome boy. Come along now, and help me with my washing." 

"Yes, Mum," he said. 

The Dark Lord Voldemort, nine times winner of the Magical Times'  "Most-Evil-Wizard-In-Existence" award followed behind her like a faithful spaniel.

Ahead of her son, Mrs Riddle smiled a particularly knowing smile. No matter how evil the child, there is nothing darker, more frightening, more loathsome, horrifying, and downright embarrassing than a mother with a complete collection of baby photos. The more demeaning the photo, the more evil the mother. 

Mrs Riddle could certainly give her son a running for his Magical Times' Evil awards. "Honey-pie," she cooed, "After dinner, we really must go over your baby photos..." 

*** **

*****

Pigeons are birds that are really quite twisted

Their many oddities are bird-lover-listed

A lesser-known fact's that they're _quite_ the connoisseurs

Yes, pigeons are sculptured art appreciators.

And when they enjoy, they let the world know

Through a gift left behind, on the head, heel or toe,

But you (I hope) are of the human race

And if _you_ enjoyed, well, then, please grace

The box below with a sentence or two

Come, Gentle Reader, please leave a review!

********


	2. Sometimes A Wand Is Just A Wand

Disclaimer:  J.K.Rowling owns the Harry Potter world.  Sigmund Freud owns himself.  

**Chapter the Second:  In Which Voldemort Meets Dr Freud, and Learns All About… Cigars.**

**Sometimes a Wand is Just a Wand…**

There have been many theories, over the years, as to how environment and genes influence childhood development.  There are tales told of twins separated from birth; one to an impoverished life where he is beaten and starved, the other to a luxurious and caring environment.  One became an axe murderer, the other a politician.  Such different circumstances… why did both go wrong?

How did Tom Marvalo Riddle change from a handsome, likeable Head Boy into the psychopathic Lord Voldemort?

Many questions could be asked concerning that individual.  Yet, Doctor Sigmund Freud reflected, as he glanced nervously at the wizard reclining on his couch, he for one would not like to learn the answers.  There are some things that are better not known.  Some lives simply should not be delved into.

"So…" he said.

"Yes?"  Voldemort sat up.

"So… well… how is it that you find yourself here?"

The Dark Lord shrugged.  "I killed my last psychiatrist, and Mother said that I had to get another one.  She said you were the most famous psychiatrist in the world, so I used a timeturner to travel eighty years into the past, and then I Apparated into your waiting room."

"No, I mean, _why_ have you come here?"  Freud said, in-between scribbling down: …_mother… time travel… 'Apparate'… hallucinations?…_

Voldemort gave his psychiatrist a particularly evil glare.  "My mother told me I had to."

"Ah.  And, er, why is that?" _After all, when a strange man with red eyes appears in your office and threatens the secretary with a wand for chewing gum… well, that just _screams_ sanity, doesn't it?_

"Mother says I have 'unresolved issues' and need to confront them to grow as a person."

"Really?  What sort of issues?"

"She thinks the lack of a stable father-figure has led me to indulge in aggressive and reclusive behaviour."

"Well, er.." Freud glanced at the paper in his hand.  "…Tommy?"

The red eyes burned with an evil glow.  "_Tommy_?  TOMMY?"

"That's what's written here!"

Voldemort whipped out his wand and burned the paper to ashes.  "You shall address me as 'my Lord Voldemort'.  Understand?"

The doctor stared transfixed.  "Perfectly!"

"Good."  The diabolical flash in the eyes faded to normal… as normal as red eyes _could_ be.

Freud took the opportunity to scribble down some notes.  _Dominating mother… delusions of grandeur…'wand' fixation …_

"So, ah, my Lord, why don't you tell me about your childhood?"

"I grew up in an orphanage."

"Ah.  How did that make you feel?"

Voldemort gave the psychiatrist a puzzled look.  "Like an orphan."

"But you are not an orphan…?  Your mother is obviously still alive."

"I'm half an orphan.  My father's dead."

"How did he die?"

"I killed him."

"Oh.  And, ah, how did that make you feel?  Guilty?  Angry?  Sad?"

"Um... tired."

"Tired?  World-weary, you mean?  Regretful?"

"No, _tired_.  It was the first time I ever used the killing curse.  It took a lot out of me."

"I see.  Well, Lord Voldemort, since you don't have any feelings of remorse you'd like to discuss…"  

"No."

"…ah, perhaps we should talk about the orphanage instead?  How were you treated there?"

"Like a freak."

"Really?  How odd," said the doctor, against all the evidence.  "Why was that, do you think?"

"Well… one summer, the other orphans saw me practice flying my broomstick."

"Flying your _broomstick_?" The bushy eyebrows shot up an inch.

"Yes.  My broomstick was nothing special… a bit small, rough, bristly… but it was all I had.  I blame my father for not having a better one, like the other boys at Hogwarts."

"And what was your father's, er, _broomstick_, like?"

"The bloody Muggle didn't have one, of course!"

"Ah," said Dr Freud, scribbling down notes madly and determining to look up 'Muggle' as soon as he had the chance.  Probably another word for 'eunuch', he supposed.  "So the other boys at the orphanage picked on you?"

"Yes.  They already knew I was different.  Not just because of my broomstick, but because one of them saw me talking to a house elf once."

"Elf?  You mean like… a fairy?"  Freud inquired.

"Similar, I suppose."

Again the notepad came out.  _Embarrassed about 'broomstick'… grew up in entirely male environment… was friends with, quote, 'elves' …_

"And how did the adults at the orphanage treat you?"

"They didn't like me much either.  They thought I was subversive and evil."

"Really?  Any particular reason?"

"Well…" Voldemort said, stroking his bone-white chin… "Brother Lawrence was very angry when he caught me playing with my pet snake."

"I see."  Freud's expression grew very serious.  "Did Brother Lawrence ever play with your… pet snake… too?"

Voldemort snorted.  "Of course not!  He said that all snakes were the instruments of Satan.  He would never have touched one."

"Ah."  Freud devoted himself to scribbling down notes.  

Voldemort tapped the back of the couch impatiently.  "Can we hurry things up a little, please?  Mother says I'm not allowed to leave until I've been diagnosed."

"Of course, of course," Freud said, relieved at the thought of his patient's departure.  "Well, ah, my Lord, let's go back to your father.  I sense that you still feel a lot of resentment towards him."

"What's there to say about him?  He was a Muggle bastard, he abandoned my mother, I tracked him down and killed him."

"Right, fair enough.  So you were taking revenge on him for the way he treated your mother?"

"Yes."

"And your mother?  How did she feel about your father's death?  Are you the one who told her?"

"Yes, I sent her a letter just after I did it.  I wrote it with my father's favourite fountain pen."

"His _pen_?" A few notes were scribbled down.  "Dear me, writing to the mother with the father's _pen_…"  Freud circled '_pen_' and linked it to '_wand_', '_broomstick_', and '_pet snake_'.  There was a trend here, he was sure.

"So?  Is that it?  Can you diagnose me now?" Voldemort said impatiently.

"Almost.  I'd like to do a word-association exercise with you first.  Just say the first thing that comes into your mind:  "Mother?"

"Son." 

"Wand?"

"Weapon."

"Snake?"

"Friend."

"Ahem.  Muggle?"

"Kill."

"Right, well, enough of that.  Last thing, then you can go."  That seemed to be a source of relief to both parties.  "Describe to me your standard day?"

"Well… I wake up and play with my snake- Nagini.  Then I talk to mother over breakfast, before flying my broomstick.  She usually watches me." 

"Ai!_"_  Freud exclaimed, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline.   "Ahem.  I mean, do go on."

"Then I might go and torture some Muggles for a bit before lunch.  It's a good way of working up an appetite."

Muggles?  That's right…  _…Strong dislike of eunuchs…_ Freud wrote. 

"After lunch, mother and I will have a chat.  Then I'll call a Death Eater meeting before dinner.  Mother and I will have dinner together, and then she'll go to bed, and I'll go meet my Death Eaters."

"Death Eaters?  And they are…?"  
"My followers.  To a man, they are loyal to me alone."

_…'To a man'…_ Freud noted.  "So I suppose all of you have… wands, correct?"

"Yes.  We usually get good use out of them too."

"Ai!"

"Yes, nothing like a spot of Muggle torture after supper.  Then after we've tortured them to death, we leave their bodies under a Dark Mark."

"A Dark Mark?"

"Basically a giant snake."

"Ah.  Well, my lord Voldemort, that's quite enough."

"You're ready to diagnose me, then?"

"Yes.  Quite.  I believe you are a psychopath.  And suffering from severe sexual repression.  And an Oedipus complex."

"Pardon?"

"Practically a textbook definition of each.  Once I've written the textbooks, that is." 

"_Oedipus_ complex?"

"It's this Greek man who killed his father and married his mother…" 

"I _know_ the classics.  And I am _not_-"

"I really must thank you.  As disturbing as this session has been, it has certainly given me some fascinating case evidence for my research."

"And sexually suppressed?  What by Merlin do you mean by that?"

"Lord Voldemort, it is quite clear that you are homosexual.  Gayer than a circus of clowns on laughing gas.  Open-and-shut case, very useful for my books."

"Merlin's testicles!"

"Oh dear," Freud said, scribbling another note down.

"Stop writing!  Let me see that!"  Voldemort snatched Freud's notes.  He scanned through them.   "You've just written down things I've said!"

"Y-e-s?"

"So how did you decide that I was homosexual and wanted to marry my mother from that?"

"My dear lord Voldemort, the psychiatrist's profession is complex, and my methods of diagnosis would be far too intricate to explain…"  Freud trailed off.  Voldemort had a particularly nasty look in his eyes, and Freud suddenly remembered that his patient hadn't felt it all necessary to dispute the charge of 'psychopath'.  "It's just… you made all those comments.  About wands.  And broomsticks.  And snakes.  And pens.  And 'elves'."

Voldemort's expression did not change, but without a word he stood up and left the room.  In a blink of an eye he had returned.

"This is a House Elf," he said, pushing forward a pathetic little creature with a nose of a size that made Freud's eyes water.  The creature was holding a long length of wood.  "And this is a broomstick," the Dark Lord said.  

A hiss was suddenly heard in the neighbouring room, followed by "Help, help!  Good snake… stay back… no!  no! aaaaarrrggghhh!"  And a crunch.  "That would be Nagini, my snake," Voldemort said.  "I think she just ate your receptionist."

"Well," Freud said, backing away from his patient, "I may have been just a little premature in my diagnosis…"

"Yes."  The red eyes were fixed upon him.  "And do not forget _this_-" a slender length of polished wood was whipped out "-my _wand_.  _Avada Kedavra!_"    

Freud's pet budgie fell off its perch.

Freud gulped.  The wand was now being pointed at him.  "Ah.  Well, taking this new evidence into account, we'll just forget the sexual suppression and Oedipus complex?"

"I think so."

"So we'll leave the diagnosis as 'Your son is a dangerous, psychopathic criminal?"

Voldemort smiled happily.  "Mother will be so proud."

"I'll just write up my report then," the good Doctor said, doing just that.  This case had certainly been an eye-opener.  His eyebrows had almost shot right off his head.

Voldemort paced around the office as he waited, examining Freud's credentials, and flipping through a thesis on the significance of phallic metaphors.

"Finished," Freud said, handing his patient a piece of paper.

"Thank you.  All done then?"

"Yes."

"Do I require treatment?" the Dark Lord asked suspiciously.

"No.  Oh no.  It is my professional opinion that you are completely untreatable."

"Good."  Voldemort paused for a moment, looking at the thesis in his hand.  "You know, sometimes a wand is just a wand."

"Really?  Dear me.  Cigar?"

Voldemort took one suspiciously, wary of any associations his phallic-fixated psychiatrist might make.  "And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"I'll have to remember that one," Freud replied.

~fin~

Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed my first chapter.  Extra thanks (with hugs and smiles) to those who reviewed. 

And now for The Pigeon Poem…  

Pigeons are birds that are really quite twisted

Their many oddities are bird-lover-listed

A lesser known fact's that they're quite the connoisseurs

Yes, pigeons are sculptured art appreciators.

And when they enjoy, the let the world know

Through a gift left behind on the head, heel or toe

But you, O reader, are of the human race

So if you enjoyed, well then please grace

The box below with a sentence or two

Come, Dearest Reader, please leave a review!


End file.
